


Cold Case

by cognomen



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blackmail, Corruption, M/M, Smut at the front, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unprofessional Conduct
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: They don’t always wind up back at Poe’s apartment after a bust—or nights that are a bust—but lately it’s become almost the usual habit. They gravitate, without talking about it, toward each other. The other option is only to go home alone.Something is wrong with Poe's partner of five years, Ben Solo. They've always shared more than they should, including too much of each other's company. So when the clues finally come to Detective Poe Dameron's attention, he can't ignore them anymore. He has to follow this trail to the end, to know what he doesn't, to figure out what's behind all this.





	Cold Case

**Author's Note:**

> Smut right away, pretty much!

1.

They don’t always wind up back at Poe’s apartment after a bust—or nights that are a bust—but lately it’s become almost the usual habit. They gravitate, without talking about it, toward each other. The other option is only to go home alone.

Poe slings his leather jacket up on the coat hooks next to his door, passing Ben the sixer of beer he’d bought to supplement the silver-canned atrocities Ben had left (and that had remained untouched) in Poe’s fridge on his last visit. 

“Alright,” Poe says, to his partner’s stony expression, “but it went pretty well today. We got two new leads on the source of that meth drop.”

Ben juggles the beer to pull his own coat off. “I suppose. Still doesn’t count until we put someone away for it.”

“See, that pessimism is why no one likes you,” Poe teases. “Do the work, ring the bell.”

He’s referring to the department tradition of celebrating a bust by ringing an old boxing ring bell in the squad room three times, like a T.K.O. He fishes a longneck out of the cardboard pack, leaving Ben holding the box on the assumption that he’ll put it away in the fridge.

Poe sits down on the couch as Ben heads into his kitchen, rooting around in the fridge to make space and fetching one of his own beers. He fishes a trashy can cooler out of the basket that collects clutter on Poe’s counter. 

Ben fits the silver can inside it, revealing the tacky tagline embossed on the foam. He seems to get a kick out of it every time he comes over.  _ Sure you can dance  -Beer. _

“No accounting for taste,” Poe says fondly, as Ben cracks the beer open and takes several swallows. 

“We’re not all picky, Dameron,” Ben says, leaning against the back of the couch, towering over Poe and smiling at him. “Some of us know how to be happy with simple things.”

Poe pops the top on his own beer with the bottom edge of his lighter. “Not me, buddy, I never settle.”

Ben laughs at that, as much as he ever laughs at anything. It’s a low sound, rich with irony. The first few times Poe heard it, he’d found it intimidating. Now, he marks it like a mental victory point every time.

“No, I guess not,” Ben says, dropping down onto the other end of the couch. “But  _ you  _ gave me the cozy.”

“I didn’t expect you to use it,” Poe says.

“I use everything you give me,” Ben says, with a catty smirk that he presses against the lip of his beer.

They look at each other for a few  long moments as they drink enough to take the nervous edge off, Poe measuring the intensity of his partner’s gaze. When he’d first started inviting Ben over, he’d sworn to himself that it wasn’t always going to end this way. That he’d never count on this outcome.

Poe’s lousy at keeping his word to himself, it turns out. 

He eases over on the couch, setting his beer aside, and reaches out to take Ben’s drink from him, setting it on the coffee table as well before he presses Ben down flat against the armrest, looking him in his dark and burning eyes until one of Ben’s big hands curls around the back of Poe’s neck and pulls down.

They kiss open-mouthed and familiar and heavy; Ben’s mouth tastes like the thin, watery beer he’s been drinking and the unique heat-and-distance taste that’s all Ben’s own.  Poe works a hand down the front of his partner’s pants and gets ahold of his cock in the confines of his slacks.

He likes the challenge of trying to do this in the limited space, of getting him hard with micro-movements and grip pressure, getting less and less effective as Ben gets harder and fills the space.

Ben finally breaks the kiss with a frustrated groan, digging his fingers into Poe’s hair and then curling his grip around the back of Poe’s neck to pull their mouths apart. From this close, Poe can see the microscopic snarl of annoyance on Ben’s face.

In sex, Ben’s all rush and all business, and Poe has always enjoyed foreplay. The results are various; but usually Poe will tease him to hardness and the point of protest.

“Stop teasing, Poe,” he growls against Poe’s mouth, using his hold on Poe’s neck like a grip on an errant kitten.

That’s Poe’s cue. “Take these off for me, then.”

Poe gathers up his legs under him, getting off the couch to give them both the space to undress. He watches Ben’s clever, long fingers undo buttons and zipper and then the slow arch and roll of Ben’s hips as he takes them off. 

Poe leaves his own in the middle of the living room on his way to hit the light switch. On the way back, he drops his tie and suit coat on top of them, joining Ben on the couch in just his shirt. They kiss again, mouths crashing together as Poe works on the buttons of Ben’s shirt and Ben pulls impatiently on Poe’s.

Poe’s gone hard, feeling pressure from his boxer briefs and Ben’s thighs. Ben’s all strength and solid warmth.

“What do you want today, huh?” Poe wonders, palming Ben’s cock through the thin barrier of his underwear. 

Ben digs his nails into the small of Poe’s back. “No games.”

It dilates something in Poe, opens up the answering flood of lust. They both rock their hips together, and Poe hooks his hands under the waistband of Ben’s boxers and pulls down, struggles to untangle him from the last confines of his clothing.  

Ben’s cock curves free and Poe curls his grip around the length of it, as Ben finishes pushing Poe’s shirt off his shoulders. He obeys the command of no longer teasing, gripping hard and stroking.

“Poe,” Ben growls, pulling their bare bodies together, arching until their cocks line up and slide.

Poe closes his teeth on a hiss, getting his hands under Ben’s thighs and hitching his hips up. Ben paws at the drawer in the side table, rattling it and the lamp on top of it. Poe’s chuckle answers the sound, visceral, as Ben pushes the tube of lubricant into Poe’s hands with an insistence.

“Jeez, you really are in a hurry,” Poe says, and Ben scratches his nails over Poe’s belly and yanks his cock.

“Just not in the mood for messing around.”

“Some people call that romance,” Poe teases, slicking his fingers and palm with lube.

“Waste of time,” Ben growls.

Poe tips his head, a sort of ‘have it your way’ gesture. He pushes two well-lubed fingers against and into Ben, curling them upward once they’re inside.

Poe’s not used to being on this side of patience, and Ben wraps a tight grip around Poe’s wrist and thrusts him deeper, tilting his hips up. He’s both yielding and not - this is the only way Ben ever seems to be. 

They don’t take their time today—Poe’s urgency is spurred on by Ben’s, answering and echoing. When he’s sure Ben’s ready, but the tightness of his grip and the way his expression burns into Poe’s, he drops a foot off the couch to get leverage. Poe lines himself up with his cock in hand and eases in.  It’s hot and tight, seems to pull Poe in even as he groans out at the pressure. Ben holds onto his own cock at the base, to keep his erection from flagging.

It’s tight and soft and yielding like  the rest of Ben isn’t, and for the few minutes they thrust and rush together, they don’t have to say or think anything. Poe leans down and opens his mouth against the side of Ben’s neck, feeling his pulse as a rhythm in counterpoint to his thrusts.

Ben’s nails scratch an answer to Poe’s biting teeth, a warning curved into the skin of Poe’s shoulder, the unspoken threat that he’d better not leave a mark on Ben’s neck.

Despite their frantic pace the build to orgasm seems slow, springs up sweat and strain along Poe’s lower back as he climbs toward it, getting his hand over Ben’s own to stroke his cock and ease him toward release.

Ben tips first, growling an ugly sound as he cums through Poe’s gripping fingers, painting his palm  with hot and slick, and the grip of his body pulses down, draws Poe’s cock deep as he pushes forward the last few times and spills over, leaving Poe panting and sagging down against Ben’s body, forgetting to be upright for a while.

They lay in the mess for a while, breathing and letting the intensity subside. Then, as if mutually agreed to rise up from the afterglow, they animate. Poe eases back and Ben hisses as he pulls out.

“Okay?” Poe asks, hesitating.

“Yeah,” Ben assures, reaching for his beer to wet his dry mouth. “My leg’s asleep, that’s all.”

Poe has to laugh, helping Ben up from the couch so they can clean up in the spacious shower stall that had leant such a strong recommendation to this place when Poe was choosing an apartment.

 

-

 

In the morning, they take separate cars on their guilty way. Poe arrives ten minutes early, unheard of punctuality for a detective that by his own admission is barely functional before at least three cups of coffee. Ben, he knows, has gone back to his own apartment on Southside to put on fresh clothes and a fresh face.

When you work at the detective's desk, showing up in yesterday’s clothes was unacceptable.

Homicide desk is empty. Narcotics has two files waiting neat on the corner lined up by the overnighters and left for Poe and Ben to wrap up.

Property crimes is occupied by his old friend, Detective Finn Williams—always early.

“Hey, buddy,” Poe says, easing over to lean on Finn’s desk and get a look at what he’s working on. “Anything exciting happen on the overnight?”

“Three burglaries and someone lost an iPhone,” Finn says, displaying his stack of reports from the patrol officers that requested followups. 

“Is that really your problem?” Poe wonders, getting his coffee ready.

“It is when the person who lost it has an itemized list of where they were in the twenty four hours prior along with a list of potential iPhone pilfering suspect, rated from most to least likely...” Finn says, with exasperated amusement.

“That  _ is _ rough, buddy,” Poe says, lifting his cup to caffeinate himself more thoroughly. 

Finn holds up the last file folder to quote from it, his dark eyes focused as if he wants to be sure to quote exactly. “One Bee and Eee where the would-be thief was frightened off by  an eighty-six year old woman with a shotgun.”

“Hey, good for her,” Poe laughs. “And I hope you catch the guy. That’s a slam dunk at trial.”

Finn grins at him, setting his folders aside and picking up his cup of coffee.

“I still think you’re wasted on property crimes,” Poe tells him, taking a long sip of department-issued swill, cut with powdered creamer. He restrains a grimace.

“Nope,” Finn says. “I won’t do anything with bodies, so I’m happy to be where I’m at.”

Finn’s ambition seems to all be channeled outward. Poe can respect that. He’s heard that as a beat-cop, Finn lost his partner Steven ‘Slip’ Anderson in a shootout. It seems it was enough to shake Finn’s faith, anyway. 

“Well, at least we’re clearing burglaries at a good rate,” Poe says. “Narcotics is all wishing they’d let us catch up before inventing some new drug to figure out. If I never see another bath salts case...”

“Hey, about that. I mean—not the bath salts thing,” Finn says, hesitantly, as if he’s not sure he should say anything. 

Poe expects some weed-related confession. He gets a surprising amount of them. He doesn’t know what it is about being a NARC, but something compels people to question or confess past sins. 

“Is your partner okay?” Finn asks, instead.

“What?” Poe asks, train of thought abruptly derailed. “Ben? Why?”

An image of heat and nearness from the evening prior crowds Poe’s mind like a moth to candle light. How close they had been when they’d woken up tangled together, just a little more than an hour ago.

“Well,” Finn hesitates. “He had that thing. Uh, the incident. A girl came in and made a complaint.”

It’s the first Poe’s heard of it. He finds himself shifting back, crossing his arms over his chest in a way he’s learned to read on suspects as defensive positioning.

“Oh, shit,” Finn reads it instantly. “I thought he would have told you. I don’t know. It’s—he just got shook-up about it. Broke a coffee cup. Captain Organa got pissed.”

_ Where was I? _ Poe wonders.

“It’s probably nothing,” Finn continues. “Just stress, you know? I’m sure if he didn’t tell you, it’s nothing.”

Finn looks at Poe anxiously, as if worried that Poe might take offense to the gossip. It’s a playground sort of look—a worry that his indiscretion is about to be tattled on.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Poe says, trying to reassure Finn. “Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t tell him you said anything, but I’m glad you did.”

Finn smiles at Poe, clearly relieved. “I just figured it had to be the stress. Detective Solo usually keeps his cool.”

Poe keeps it to himself that he’s felt at times that the exterior stoniness is only the lid over a boil. A still surface about to erupt. But he won’t forget what Finn said, either. He has a good instinct for when something’s wrong, it’s part of what makes him an effective detective.

Finn goes back to work, and Poe soothes his racing thoughts with another cup of coffee.

 

-

 

When Ben walks in, he’s put together flawlessly. For Poe, it almost seems to scream ‘trying too hard’, or ‘hiding something’. No one else seems to think anything of it - or at least, nothing related to Poe. 

His hair is shower-wet and brushed back from his long, hawkish face, shirt buttoned to the top of his collar and hiding the marks Poe’s mouth had made there.

“Morning Detective Solo,” Finn calls as Ben passes him by for the coffee machine.

“Morning, Detective Williams,” Ben answers, selecting his mug easily from the lineup on the counter. His greeting has less enthusiasm, but Poe knows Ben’s just like that before his first cup of coffee.

Poe watches him acutely, but he can see nothing unusual in the ritual. Ben takes his coffee with a lot of sugar—real sugar—and nothing else.

He returns to the Narcotics desk with the neon-pink cup pressed against his mouth. Poe can read, ‘ _ Don’t laugh, it’s your girlfriend’s cup _ ’ printed on the front. He hadn’t broken his own cup, then.

“What’d night shift leave for us?” he asks, staring back at Poe as baldly as Poe is looking at him.

“Paperwork, mostly,” Poe admits. “Wish they’d bring back overtime so Night could cover their own shit.”

“Swear jar,” Finn calls, from beyond the partition.

Ben grins at Poe, ‘gotcha’ style, and Poe digs a quarter out of his pocket, part of his stash for the snack machines. And the swear jar.

He tosses it to Ben in a gentle arc, and Ben lays it up one handed into the old pickle jar. No one really cares if they swear in the detective bureau, but it’s the most effective way to raise money for the charity of the month.

“Anyway, aside from paperwork,” Poe says. “Looks like we’re free to pursue our own cases today.” 

Poe thinks he sees a ragged flash of impatience cross Ben’s features. It’s just a flash - but it’s an ugly, hungry expression.

He steps away from Poe’s desk and sits at his own, accepting his share of the paperwork without further complaint. 

  
  



End file.
